


Step, Turn

by themorninglark



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: M/M, Post-Canon, Summer Jobs, University era, Yokohama Tikachus, mascot au, reconnecting, some light beer drinking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-31
Updated: 2016-07-31
Packaged: 2018-07-26 08:28:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,784
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7567201
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/themorninglark/pseuds/themorninglark
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He's just leaning against the wall at the pre-event briefing, flicking idly through Instagram to while away the minutes, when a voice he couldn't mistake in <em>years</em> somehow manages to lilt right through the ambient hum of chatter all around and make him <em>look up</em>.</p><p>"<em>Mattsun</em>?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Step, Turn

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tothemoon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tothemoon/gifts).



> To Justine, in hopeful fulfilment of your fondest wish. Happy HQHols! ;)

 

 

 

From across the cafeteria table, Hanamaki Takahiro, a large soda in his hand and straw halfway to his mouth, looks up with a flicker of something like dry amusement in his narrowed gaze.

"A summer job? _You?_ "

"A summer job. Me," echoes Matsukawa Issei.

Hanamaki says nothing, very articulately.

He leans back, into the draft of the rotating fans overhead; slings an arm over the plastic chair next to him and raises his eyebrows, just a tiny bit. The next sip he takes is an extra loud _slurp_ , the kind where you're scraping the bottom of the paper cup and it's all pockets of air between ice.

Matsukawa feels the sweat on his hair, sticking loose, straggly strands to the nape of his neck. He feels July press in like static cling. He thinks longingly of his _dream summer_ , spent, ideally, mostly in a horizontal and stationary position on his cool floor, fresh orange slices within arm's reach. The _things_ he does for money. The things he does because they look _vaguely interesting_. This, at least, sits at the junction of those two interests of his. _Well_ , he figures, it could be fun; it'll be _something_ , at any rate.

He pulls out a deadpan smile of his own to match Hanamaki's barely-veiled smirk. "It's convenient for me, and it's only a week-long thing. They even throw in the costume rental free."

Hanamaki nearly chokes. "Costume rental, you say?"

"Yeah. I've always thought I'd look very fetching in yellow. What do you think?"

"Hmm," says Hanamaki, as he gives Matsukawa's complexion a speculative once-over. "Could work, I guess. What kind of costume are we talking here?"

Matsukawa takes a crumpled flier out of his pocket and slides it across the table.

When Hanamaki starts sniggering, Matsukawa grins and says, good-naturedly, "The pay's not too shabby," and then it's time and they have to head to their next exam, and Hanamaki's generous enough to offer Matsukawa the remainder of his soda.

"A _thank you_ for the quality entertainment in advance," he says, "because I'm sure as hell not missing this."

Matsukawa shrugs. "Be my guest. There'll be 1,000 of us wearing costumes. It's not like you'll find me in the crowd."

 

 

* * *

 

 

He's just leaning against the wall at the pre-event briefing, flicking idly through Instagram to while away the minutes, when a voice he couldn't mistake in _years_ somehow manages to lilt right through the ambient hum of chatter all around and make him _look up_.

" _Mattsun_?"

 

 

Of course Oikawa Tooru would find him in the crowd.

 

 

* * *

 

 

They're in the Yokohama Gymnasium, because there isn't anywhere else in the city with a hall big enough to fit a thousand would-be Tikachus _and_ teach them how to dance. Also because, Matsukawa muses, it's kind of fitting that a _gym_ would be where they'd meet again, in the _nudge-nudge-wink-wink_ way of the universe making its sense of humour known.

On the sidelines, Oikawa's gaping at him.

"Hey," says Matsukawa, raising a hand in greeting.

"What _are_ you doing here?" Oikawa hisses, stalking over as he raises one hand to prop his glasses up on his head. He's dressed plainly today, in trackpants and a white T-shirt that hangs off his shoulders in a careless, baggy fashion, like he'd just _thrown on_ the first thing that came to hand in his wardrobe, and emerged looking like a teen magazine model anyway.

Matsukawa takes a moment to ponder that old adage about how some things never change.

"Same thing as you, I suppose. Whatever you're doing."

Oikawa's lip curls cutely, in a pout that's almost becoming.

"My nephew. Takeru," Oikawa says, sighing as he flops back on the wall next to Matsukawa, arms crossed. "This was supposed to be _his_ summer job, but he flunked a bunch of exams, and he has to take make-up tests and go to some _super intensive juku_ — "

The hint of a smile ghosts past Matsukawa's face. "So Uncle Tooru stepped in to help."

"Mattsun, please don't ever call me _Uncle Tooru_ again. It's _creepy_."

To that, Matsukawa's response is a brief, _expressive_ sort of eyebrow wiggle, which makes Oikawa pull a face at him. Matsukawa watches as Oikawa tilts his neck slightly, raises one hand to his forehead, presses his long fingers down on the bridge of his nose and the ridge between his eyes. A blink, and a familiar gesture.

Matsukawa turns his gaze back out at the milling crowd in the gymnasium.

"You look tired," he offers, as an observation.

"I _am_ tired," murmurs Oikawa, and his voice in that instant is still petulant, but privately so; soft enough just for the both of them. Matsukawa shoots him a knowing look.

"Takeru called me _last night_ , and I had to get on the train this _morning_ to be here."

"Ah," says Matsukawa. "Magnanimous as always."

Oikawa jabs a decisive finger into Matsukawa's shoulder, his protestations noisier, louder than his touch. "I am _not_! I'm only doing this because he promised to split the pay with me!"

Matsukawa lets Oikawa's hand stay where it is.

"Sure, sure. Whatever you say."

"What about _you_ , anyway?" Oikawa presses. "I didn't think _you_ were the sort to go in for something like this."

"Why not? I'm an excellent dancer," Matsukawa pronounces, poker-faced.

Oikawa lets out an undignified snort of laughter at that.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Then a perky, ponytailed lady with a loudhailer appears, claps her hands encouragingly and says, _right, before we get round to actual dancing, you need to learn how to even walk in these costumes!_ , and Matsukawa shoves an oversized Tikachu head down the line into Oikawa's arms, and _no one_ in the hall, not even Oikawa Tooru, manages to keep a shred of dignity when wriggling into their suits, and much to Matsukawa's amusement, Oikawa isn't laughing anymore.

 

 

* * *

 

 

_Reunions are made of nights like this —_

The scrape and slide of a bowl of ramen across an unvarnished wooden counter, as Oikawa, with an accustomed loser's grace, pushes it over to him; the warm, lamp-lit glow of an outdoor stall, the smell of _tonkotsu_ broth and the _yakitori_ grill. This, all of _this_ : it stirs sentiment in Matsukawa's stomach, if not his memories of roadside suppers after those long, long training days, where it didn't matter _what_ they ate, just that they were eating _something_ at all and they were eating it together. Every _nikuman_ , every stick of cheap, charred _kushiyaki_ , tasted like heaven.

Now, _summer_ is a song that comes and goes, fleeting, hot on their backs, and here they are again sitting side by side.

"I can't believe you actually _are_ an excellent dancer," Oikawa mutters.

"I can't believe you still haven't learned not to take bets like that," says Matsukawa, slurping up a mouthful of noodles.

Oikawa takes a long swig of the light beer in his hand, sets it down with a meaningful _thunk_ and turns to pin Matsukawa down with a mere glance. His face is framed in devastating profile. He's wearing his glasses, a reminder to Matsukawa that Oikawa Tooru, star on the rise, is the sort of person who needs to go around with a disguise now. Or maybe it's just that all those late nights watching videos in the dark have finally caught up with him.

"Well," says Oikawa, easily, "it's been a while, hasn't it?"

Matsukawa hums in agreement, his low _mmm_ a bass line that underscores this chance encounter. It blends into the sounds of the night all around them, the sounds of the city; the smooth rumble of cars passing by, footsteps and mis-steps, techno-pop ringtones and neon signs that buzz overhead.

Oikawa's side dish of _tebasaki_ arrives. He tucks into a wing with gusto, licking his fingers clean of sesame seeds after every bite.

Matsukawa takes his time to savour his _chashu_. It melts in his mouth. Little pleasures.

"You got busy," he points out.

"Yeah. Busy on the bench," says Oikawa, but he laughs, then. It's a different laugh, for a different time; a laugh like a soaring stride that's tumbling, bruised in new places, free-falling off one pinnacle on its way to another, and Matsukawa finds himself considering the possibility that either Oikawa's _finally_ grown up, or he was _secretly_ the most mature of them all along.

"Great view from there," he offers, as an observation skirting _neutrality_ , because's always been able to read which way the wind's blowing, and Oikawa doesn't need his pity.

"Better than on TV," Oikawa concurs. "But no close-ups, or instant replays."

"How inconvenient."

"I _know_. Alas. When _will_ real life catch up with technology?"

Oikawa's question is thrown out dramatically, rhetorically, with a flick of his arm and an indignant toss of his head.

"If you could _rewind_ real life — " he starts, then pauses.

Matsukawa picks up his chopsticks again.

He waits, patient, for Oikawa's restless train of thought to run its course. The careful careening of it is marked by an abrupt sort of _huff_ , and then a self-deprecating chuckle that bubbles up from an old, familiar place.

"You know what? I guess it'd be kind of lame, after all."

"Hmm," Matsukawa murmurs. "It's nice to see you're still facing forward."

"Of _course_ ," says Oikawa airily.

They fall into a comfortable kind of silence as they finish up their food. This is familiar territory. Oikawa gets the bill, and Matsukawa doesn't complain.

As the stall owner collects his empty mug, Oikawa laces his fingers together with a pronounced _crack_ of his knuckles, stretches his arms up and outward and turns that grin of his, undimmed, onto Matsukawa. "Well, _providence_ has thrown us together again, so we should make the _most_ of it, shouldn't we? Let's stay up till sunrise! You get the next round."

 _We're too old for that,_ Matsukawa wants to protest. He settles, instead, for another drink, finishes up the last dregs of his ramen and pushes back his stool. When he stands up, the clouded sky waits to greet him. There's hours, still, to the last train, and the moon hangs bright tonight, low and lazy.

If he closed his eyes, he might smell the gritty salt of the sea on the air, hear the bustling port of Yokohama still _alive_ in the distance. Lights on the water. Lights from the city. They seem to follow Oikawa around, these spotlights and flashlights; always have. Will they always? Perhaps. Perhaps not.

It _has_ been a while.

"Sure. Why not," Matsukawa acquiesces, with a shrug. "Waking up hungover couldn't make your dancing any worse, anyway."

" _Mattsun._ Have mercy, I implore you."

Matsukawa thinks about it.

"Nah," he says, and takes the hangdog expression Oikawa throws at him in his stride.

 

 

* * *

 

 

When Matsukawa finds to his bemusement that he does not, after all, wake with a hangover, he remembers all over again that Oikawa Tooru does have a _sensibility_ filter after all. In retrospect, that's not surprising. He shouldn't have been surprised.

He should have taken a Vine of Oikawa in a Tikachu suit falling unglamorously on his ass, is what he should have done, but hindsight's 20/20 and Matsukawa is generous enough to let it go. It's a beautiful day in Yokohama. His neighbour's sunflowers, winking across the balcony, are out in full bloom, and Matsukawa wanders out to the railing as he's brushing his teeth, listens to a lone bicycle bell ring out in the alley below, and thinks of transient things.

Oikawa's already warmed up when Matsukawa reaches the gymnasium. He's one of the last to arrive, a takeaway Americano still hot in his hand.

He doesn't need to ask Oikawa to know he'd probably been one of the first.

"Hey," he says, as he crosses the floor and strolls up to the tall figure in a familiar aqua-accented tracksuit. It looks no less worn than it did three years ago. It looks, in fact, very well cared for.

"Hey," Oikawa calls over his shoulder and whirls around, a little breathless. Matsukawa wonders if he spent the rest of the night practising their basic _step, turn_ routine, _after_ catching the last train back to Tokyo. He wonders if Oikawa slept at all.

He remembers the days when Oikawa hardly slept at all.

It's a strange thing to be nostalgic for, dark circles under eyes and a low murmur on his voicemail, barely above a whisper. Cracking like static, parched, intimate. _Hey, Mattsun. I can't sleep. Iwa-chan said he'd deck me if I called him again, but I know you won't mind._

He never did. He's easygoing like that.

He remembers everything, _really_ , when it comes down to it; lucidity is practically his middle name, and slight inebriation only makes every sensation clearer, sharper, even in the morning. That's him, ever the _level-headed_ one.

He remembers Oikawa's hand on his back, and his own weight as he leaned into it. Oikawa's hold, sure and firm as his tongue is glib, Oikawa calling him a _lightweight_ even as Matsukawa pointed out the same of him, and then the sound of crashing waves that drowned out their laughter. He remembers a gaze cloaking watchfulness in obligatory _concern_ , _it's just what a friend would do_ , constant vigilance and looking out for chips in the concrete as Matsukawa, his balance deliberate, charted a swaying tightrope path at the edge of the Kishamichi Promenade. Oikawa took a step back, let him lead the way through his city.

Their ceaseless tide drags Matsukawa back to the gym. He's greeted by the sight of Oikawa's lips parting in a flushed _exhale_ as he rests one hand on his hip, wipes the sweat off his brow with the other.

Matsukawa holds out a fist, and Oikawa bumps it right back.

"Looking good today," he says.

"You mean _every day_ ," Oikawa retorts, not missing a beat.

"Well," says Matsukawa agreeably, "better than yesterday, at any rate," and Oikawa shoves him in the ribs with an elbow as he pronounces that his debut will be _picture-perfect_.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Matsukawa doesn't have the heart to tell him that none of it matters, _really_ , because as he'd so succinctly reminded Hanamaki during finals week, it's not like anyone can tell it's _them_ under the costumes.

(That, and he has a sneaking suspicion that Oikawa doesn't care even if no one knows it's him. He and his _pride_.)

They line up in single file and take to the streets, a merry band of Tikachus parading down the boardwalk as they make their way through the Minato Mirai district. The _Cosmo Clock 21_ ferris wheel, a pale silhouette soaring above the harbour, spins on in its stately way; the ships are in port, and August in Yokohama is everything that it ever promised to be, lit up in effervescent, youthful dreams like rustling grass and silver-bright skyscrapers that graze the sky. The ground is warm, even hot, beneath their mascot feet, and one moment they're stepping out and the next they're _overrun_ by _tourists_ — no, not _just_ tourists —

Passers-by of all sorts, fashionable teenagers on their summer break, kicking back with _kakigori_ , children in caps tearing away from their parents, even the odd suited salarymen on their way to meetings. Anyone and _everyone_.

The padded suit isn't exactly made for _sound_ to penetrate, and Matsukawa can only just about hear the clapping, keeping time, as they amble along. But he _can_ hear the squeals. There are a _lot_ of them, in varying pitches, in surround sound.

He takes a moment to regret that Tikachu does not have 1) a pocket, like Doraemon, in which he could have stashed his phone, or 2) opposable thumbs, and wonders with some amusement if this is what it's like to be Oikawa Tooru.

(On second thought, Matsukawa considers, he'd bet that even _Oikawa's_ never had so many cameras pointed his way before, or adoring fans screaming his name. He's hearing a lot more _Tikachu! Kawaii!_ here than he ever remembers hearing _Oikawa-san!_ or _Tooru!_ in his life. Which is impressive, as that's a fair bit.

It's easy to underestimate Oikawa's magnetism, when you grow used to him. Matsukawa Issei is too rational to be fooled by appearances.)

 

 

* * *

 

 

"I don't _get_ why your Tikachu gets to wear sunglasses," Oikawa complains, "and mine's just a normal one."

"Because I'm taller and cooler?" Matsukawa offers.

" _Please!_ "

Matsukawa collects their hard-earned loot from the vending machine, straightens and tosses Oikawa a bottle of Pocari Sweat. Oikawa catches it easy without looking, a petulant scowl to spare in Matsukawa's direction as he joins him on the bench.

The warmth of the day has persisted into night, sultry and sticky on his bare arms. At the opposite platform, the train comes, and goes; the digital clock above their heads ticks on second by second as evening draws on, the season's late sunset painting that skyscraper horizon in streaks of coppery red.

"I thought I saw Makki today," says Oikawa, glancing sideways at him.

"Oh?" Matsukawa pops the cap on his can and takes a few hearty gulps. "At the mall?"

"Yeah. At the mall. After we split into groups. By the way, you're _so_ lucky you didn't have to walk _through_ the city in that costume, you don't even _know_."

"But if you hadn't walked through the city in that costume, thousands of shoppers would have been deprived of your immaculate synchronised dancing," Matsukawa points out.

Oikawa grins. "And what a _shame_ that would have been."

"Exactly."

" _Anyway!_ Makki!"

"Yeah." Matsukawa nods. "He said he wanted to come watch me make a fool of myself."

"How _judgey_ of him. You're really quite a dashing Tikachu."

"I know, right?" Matsukawa readily concurs.

Oikawa lets out a thoughtful, aimless _hmm_ under his breath. It blends in, velvet-smooth, with the milling footsteps all around them, commuters heading out of the city, into the city, after a long summer's day. It suits Matsukawa, this kind of atmosphere.

He sits back, brushes shoulders with Oikawa and lets it be deliberate. He doesn't miss the little sigh from Oikawa at the contact.

"Did you tell Makki I was here?" Oikawa asks.

Matsukawa looks at him. "No. Was I supposed to?"

"No. Not really. I don't know. I mean, I kind of thought you _just_ would."

"Did _you_ tell Iwaizumi I was here?" Matsukawa counters, and even as Oikawa shakes his head, he's smiling; a smile that curves his lips in a wry, wistful way.

" _Point_ ," he says.

In the distance, they hear a familiar _whoosh_ and a rumble.

 _The train is coming_ , thinks Matsukawa.

The train will come, as it has always come and come so many times before, and they will part, and they will see each other again; but there are others they have not seen in a while, and there are absent friends and connections that have — not _sundered_ , _never_ , with them —

 _Relaxed_ , perhaps, like red threads loosening as each of them let go, became their own person along their own paths.

 

 

* * *

 

 

The week _flies_ by, once it starts. Matsukawa barely even has time for coffee in the morning any more, let alone cereal; fortunately, Oikawa's kept his annoying habit of inflicting an endless supply of milk bread on all of his friends.

"You could, I don't know. Just buy _one_ ," Matsukawa suggests.

"But the bakery at the station has a _buy four get one free_ offer in the morning!"

Matsukawa contemplates _déjà vu_ and the circularity of things.

"I feel like we've had this conversation before," he tells Oikawa.

Oikawa makes an imperious, dismissive wave in his direction, a gesture that's somewhat lessened in impact as he's in his Tikachu suit at the moment, head cradled awkwardly in the unbendable crook of an elbow.

"I bet _you_ haven't had breakfast, Mattsun, so just take it," he says, and Matsukawa does.

Before he knows it, he's blinked and then two days are gone, _three_ , in a cheery daze of yellow and camera flashes and more sunshine than he's seen in his past year of university. Too bad none of it is giving him a tan.

One evening, there's a hip-hop performance with a local band, where Matsukawa finds himself switching out his _sunglasses Tikachu_ for Tikachu with a backwards baseball cap and a little jersey, and joins a small band of street dancers in the square outside the postcard facade of the Red Brick Warehouse. Facing the docks, they're Instagram-worthy. The band's pretty good too.

There's a blessed afternoon when he finally gets to join Oikawa at the air-conditioned mall shift at searing midday, except that they are having a meet-and-greet with Tikachu's young fans and Matsukawa has never been hugged by so many small children before, and it is, to say the least, an experience.

Oikawa is surprisingly good at being hugged by small children, the same way he is at so many things.

Then there are all the rest of the times when it's just _them_ , a conga line of Tikachus walking down the street and waving to an adoring public; once, Matsukawa catches Oikawa blow a kiss to the crowd, and he doesn't know whether to be glad that no one can see him _wink_ and smile inside that costume, for the effect would surely be remarkable. _Somewhere on the Richter scale, surely. For science._

Later, when they've changed and Oikawa presses close to his shoulder on their way out, breath tickling his ear, and nudges him teasingly to ask if he made any girls swoon today with his _sick moves_ , Matsukawa can only take in the arm slung around him, settle into their closeness and solemnly promise that at last count, his tally stood at approximately _fourteen_.

"You're making that _up_!"

"Maybe I am," Matsukawa agrees, with a shrug he knows will infuriate Oikawa. "Don't be jealous."

"Who's jealous?" Oikawa tosses out, and steps up to the kerbside, sticking out his arm to flag down a passing bus.

"Where are we going?" asks Matsukawa.

The setting sun catches rose gold on Oikawa's cheek as he tilts his head back. He is a picture, everything about him; the last rays of light on the edge of his glasses, the easy slouch to his shoulders and the fine arc of his neck, like a brushstroke made in exactly the right place.

" _Anywhere_ ," says Oikawa. "Show me the city. Show me where you live."

"That's not my bus home," Matsukawa points out.

Oikawa shakes this off like it's nothing.

"We'll get there," he says, and they do, in the end.

 

 

* * *

 

 

" _Shhh —_ "

Matsukawa locks the door behind him with a _click_ , and turns.

"Why are you shushing me in my own apartment?" he asks.

Oikawa's already made himself comfortable on the couch, sprawling out across the cushions with his ankles draped over one armrest. He's tugging off his sweater now, hair mussed beneath the crew neck, shirt riding up round his waist.

 _What a sight for sore eyes_ , thinks Matsukawa.

"I don't know. Your neighbours might hear you bringing a mysterious, handsome man home at this disreputable hour."

Matsukawa hangs up his coat, casts Oikawa a sidelong glance.

"It wouldn't be the first time," he says.

"Is that so?" asks Oikawa. Casual.

"Mmm. Are you okay sleeping there?"

"Yeah, yeah. You know I'm fine anywhere. Mattsun, the more pressing question is… why _did_ we wait till Thursday night for this? We could have been having glorious sleepovers all week."

 _We're too old for that,_ Matsukawa wants to protest, _again_ , the thought's familiar; but then he shucks off his shoes and walks in and looks at Oikawa, who's fallen silent. The ticking of his kitchen clock and the sound of his breathing and _their_ breathing fills his living room. For the first time, Matsukawa thinks that maybe the space is too small, that he needs air, that the thrown-open windows aren't enough —

"I guess," he says, philosophical, "we _thought_ we were too old for that."

Oikawa picks up a cushion and hugs it to his chest. He looks exceptionally vulnerable. He has never looked braver.

" _Are_ we too old?"

Matsukawa leans back against the kitchen counter.

"Well, we're _older_ ," he concedes. "I suppose that's not a good or bad thing. Just a _thing_ thing."

Oikawa laughs fondly.

"That's my favourite thing about you, Mattsun. You're such a _matter-of-fact_ kind of guy. It's awfully… what's the word I want? Relaxing. You're awfully relaxing. I can relax around you."

Matsukawa lets out an exhale like a soft embrace.

Slowly, he gets to his feet, and goes to turn out the lights.

 

 

* * *

 

 

_It's funny, how things look different by day —_

By day, they are out of costume on a rare lunch break together, and if they'd only had those chilled orange slices he'd longingly imagined in a library an age ago now, it would have been real. His _dream summer_. Except that instead of his bedroom floor, they're sprawled across the green fields that inscribe an arc round the pier, and Oikawa had not figured in his forecast.

Said forecast for today, according to the _gut instinct_ of Matsukawa Issei, is cloudy with a chance of confession. Above them, wisps of cirrus clouds float by, slow and unhurried.

"Hey," says Matsukawa. Casual. "Do you still have trouble sleeping at night?"

There's the tiniest pause before Oikawa responds. "Why do you ask?"

Matsukawa turns to look at him.

"I got up for water around 3 AM, and your breathing was _so_ light — "

"What's _that_ supposed to mean! Are you telling me I normally _snore_?"

"I didn't say anything," says Matsukawa, and Oikawa lets out a small _hmmph_ before going silent, for a while. It feels like a small, private eternity, a fugitive breath cupped in his hand. If anyone could steal time, it'd be Oikawa.

His fingers curl in on themselves, flex again as he stretches his arms overhead and lets them fall to either side. Fingertips run absently through blades of grass like woven life-lines, warmed by the midday sun.

"Yeah. I do. Sometimes," he admits. "But I'm getting better, I think."

"You stopped calling me," Matsukawa remarks. It's not an accusation. He knows Oikawa won't take it as one. That's not how it's ever been, between them. He hopes that's still how it is.

Matsukawa is a simple man at heart, and between them, honesty, so dear to Oikawa, is an open palm for the taking.

"I didn't know if — " Oikawa starts, and breaks again. His voice is like the salt-sea breeze, deceptively mild. "If you'd still _be_ okay with that, once we all moved away. I didn't even _know_ if you ever heard any of those voicemails. You never said anything, you know? I thought… I thought it'd end up being one of those things we never spoke about. Our little secret."

A shadow-smile crosses Matsukawa's lips.

"I always listened. Sorry to break it to you like this."

"Ah, well," says Oikawa, sounding, more or less, unperturbed.

 _Here_ , elbows bumping in a park in the sweet, balmy light of a clear afternoon, it seems easier to talk about these things, easier to toss them out like their nostalgia's sunkissed and summer-tinged, nothing to hide. There _is_ nothing to hide.

"I guess," Oikawa muses, "secrets are _romantic_ when you're young. But we're older now, aren't we, Mattsun?"

"That's very poetic of you."

"I have the soul of a poet."

Matsukawa raises his thick eyebrows eloquently at Oikawa. He looks at his watch.

"We'd better get back," he says, and reaches for the hand by his side. His fingers lace through Oikawa's like water slipping through the cracks of time.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Hanamaki, as is his _style_ , waits till the very last day of the festival to come out of the woodwork.

Matsukawa, in the frontline of dancers, manages to spot him skulking around. He's got an orange juice box in his hand, a hoodie tied loosely round his hips and a completely _blasé_ expression on his face, and he is noticeable for hanging back in the pastel shelter of a flower shop's awning, apart from the rest of the crowd.

With a step, a twirl and upraised arms to match the peppy beat of their theme music, Matsukawa falls into line as the closing parade starts to make its way through the streets of Yokohama. The fans keep up an enthusiastic rhythm for them, clapping and cheering all the way. They amass at the main stage for the grand finale. All of Yokohama dances with them. It is marvellous and surreal and, more than anything, ridiculously _happy_.

Matsukawa thinks: he will _dream_ of this music for nights to come.

He permits himself a warm, fuzzy sense of satisfaction at the thought of _shared suffering_ , when he considers that Oikawa will too. He might even call him to whine about it. There are worse ways this could go.

And looking out at the smiling faces around them, he thinks as well that there are _worse summer jobs_ he could have taken; and then it's over and he's backstage, and Oikawa, who's already changed and looks daisy-fresh even with sweat sticking his fringe to his forehead, _somehow_ knows exactly which Tikachu he is, makes a beeline for him and yanks his head off with a triumphant grin.

" _Ha_ ," he crows. "Found you."

"Congratulations," says Matsukawa.

Oikawa grins.

Matsukawa wriggles out of his costume, reaches into his back pocket for his phone and checks his notifications. Hanamaki's uploaded a video onto Twitter. He's also tagged him in it for good measure.

"Be back in a bit," he murmurs to Oikawa, and slips out to the streets for a moment to find his voyeuristic friend.

Hanamaki's still outside the shop, done with his juice and now eating a croissant.

"Nice lurking," says Matsukawa.

Hanamaki nods in acknowledgement. "Nice moves."

"I wasn't actually one of those in your video, you know. I was wearing sunglasses."

" _Were_ you? Why did you get to wear sunglasses?"

"Funny," says Matsukawa. "Oikawa asked me the same thing. It's like neither of you believe in my inherent coolness."

Hanamaki snorts openly at that. He pauses to raise a questioning eyebrow, one that Matsukawa knows well enough; he meets it with a level gaze and a half-smile.

"Oikawa? He's here?"

"Dancing right by my side, in fact."

"Do you mean that, _hmm_ , literally or figuratively?"

Behind them, a bell rings; a customer exits the flower shop with a bouquet of long-stemmed red roses clutched in his hand, and one petal blows away on the rising sunset breeze, floats like a held breath and drifts to fall at Matsukawa's feet. He bends down to pick it up.

Satin-smooth between his fingertips, it's a deep, deep, wine-red.

"Who knows?" says Matsukawa, thoughtfully. "We'll see."

With a wave and a nod to Hanamaki, he turns back to rejoin the post-show debrief.

 

 

* * *

 

 

They _clink_ cans of _Kirin_ and let their legs dangle over the concrete pier. The wind, suffused with summer's heat, sweeps low and languid over the sea. If they jumped in now, thinks Matsukawa, the water might be warm. He allows himself this wild and fleeting fantasy.

"I think I'll miss this place," Oikawa remarks.

Matsukawa turns his beer can over in his hand and studies the label.

"Did you know," he says, "that _this place_ is the birthplace of _Kirin_ beer?"

"Oh?" asks Oikawa, cracking his can open with a satisfying _pop_.

"Yeah. It's pretty neat. I went to a brewery tour. They make 2,000 cans of beer per minute right here in Yokohama."

"Truly incredible. A fount of fascinating yet ultimately useless trivia. Have I ever told you what a delight you are?"

"Only sarcastically."

"I'm _always_ sincere," says Oikawa, but he's smiling that crescent-moon smile and Matsukawa thinks it'd be cool to the touch, thinks that it'd fit just nice in the curve of his heart line and he could palm it away, keep it somewhere safe and secret where he could take it out and remind himself of nights like _these_ , later, later, always.

Oikawa takes a long, hearty gulp of his beer. Matsukawa follows suit.

They do not speak, for a time; Matsukawa's never been the sort who needed conversation anyway, and when Oikawa's hand finds his, resting on the edge of the pier, he lets it close round him, as intimate and inevitable as the waves lapping at the rocks.

"What will become of us, Mattsun?" asks Oikawa, under a sky that crackles with midnight blue static, every faint star a far-flung wish, every street light alive, alive and electric and sparking.

Distantly, the constellations shimmer. Matsukawa tips his head back. He hears the ships sail in.

"Whatever we want," he says. "If you want."

Oikawa's hand tightens, _quickens_ , around his. His pulse is a furious hummingbird heartbeat and it's no mere _wanting_ , for that would be too helpless a word for it; there is _taking_ , and there is _giving_ , and there is living and breathing and all else that remains.

"What a _week_ it's been." Oikawa sighs dramatically. "I'm going to have yellow nightmares for a month."

Matsukawa lets out a low chuckle.

He reaches into his pocket with his free hand, takes out the rose petal, and presses it, soft, against Oikawa's softer lips to shut him up, like a kiss, like a _goodbye_ and a _hello_ and a _hello again, it's me_. Slightly crushed like this, it fills the air between them with a sweet, sudden scent.

"You were a great Tikachu, Oikawa. I think you're good at making people happy. Better than you know."

Oikawa sputters, and promptly buries his head into Matsukawa's shoulder. His cheek is blush-warm. It lingers all night.

 

 

* * *

 

 

_"Hey. We just got back from a friendly overseas. I can't sleep. I'm jetlagged as hell… hey, wanna know what tastes even shittier than the instant coffee from that combini outside Yokohama Gym? The instant coffee on the plane. Just, don't ever. I… god, it's been a long time, huh? I almost don't know what to say. Imagine that. Me! Speechless! Okay. Well, um._

_"I'm lying down with my phone next to my pillow, talking into space, and I've got my eyes closed, and you know, I used to pretend you were right here, just listening. I'm doing that now. You smell like strawberries. It's your shampoo. It hasn't changed._

_"Great, now I miss you and you're not here, and god that was sappy as fuck, please let me take it back… oh hey I can take it back, this is voicemail! Can I cancel this voicemail and start again? Wait, menu, buttons, where — "_

 

 

_(Click.)_

 

 

* * *

 

 

And miles away, a fond smile on his face, Matsukawa Issei picks up his phone in the dark, stretches out on his bed, and answers.

 

 

* * *

 

 

_"Hey, Oikawa. I'm listening."_

 

 


End file.
